As The World Gives
by SomeCallMeTerrible
Summary: As the world gives, it takes away. Whether it be the shadowy blanket of nightfall or the normalcy of life. Some lessons simply need to be learned, whether it be by choice or not. As he opens his mind, he will see the last refuges of his life are in the past. This will be war, nay, survival.
1. Day 0 - The Revenge of the Cows

_Written in fabulous E.B. Garamond_

 _Chunks Loading, please wait._

 _Great_ , he thought, _another loading screen. I thought I had got past the last one!_

After what seemed like an eternity, he was finally there. With a soft _plop_ , he fell the last foot onto the ground. On the side of a cliff. _Isn't that just fucking wonderful?_ he asked himself. Immediately he knew the answer to the question—of course not!

And why would it be too much to ask for to get a starter kit? It's not like he knows how exactly he's going to get the wood he needs. But no, he's just dropped in here after a long wait—(excruciating, he would call it!)—without so much as instructions!

" **YOU HEAR ME, UNIVERSE?! THIS BLOWS!"** he bellowed, booming across the forest. Clucking followed, responding with a resounding SHUT UP from the chickens below. Not literally, that would be strange, but that's how he imagined they would talk had they the chance to. Luckily, or at least luckily for him, they didn't, which should go without saying, but he's seen stranger in his years.

He climbed the cliff, taking precarious jumps that not even Bubsy Bobcat would take for fear of falling. "Augh!" he yelled, "Why does this hill have to be this steep? I can't even get a decent run in!"

Finally, with much trouble from the gravel peppered liberally across the steep expanses, he made it up to the top.

The view was fantastic. He didn't see too many views in his New York apartment, but now that he has, he can't say he expected much better. Of course, even now he's a little disappointed. He heard views could take his breath away, but this really didn't. You know, besides gasping after having a panic attack. That's not what they meant, though. He must be, what, 400 feet above sea level? He could see for maybe a third of a mile, and it's mostly desert and a sparsely populated, yet mountainous plain.

He, after assessing the situation, laid eyes on some rather attractive cows, of which he couldn't decide the type of attraction. He was hungry, that was likely it.

Punching the face of the cow in, both the cow and his hand became rather bloodied, tinting the cow itself red. He repeated until the cow was finally dead, and lugged it over his back. It slowed him down, but he had to make sure he could move it and this was his only option.

As he dragged along the mangled bovine, he felt a slippery surface under his boot. As it turned out, he was walking on gravel at the edge of a cliff.

The cliff didn't do him any favours. In fact, the cliff, for what it's worth, had no strong feelings for him either way as it was, as first assessed, a cliff and therefore could not think on its own. It, following that logic, could not wish to keep him safe from harm. See above for why. Thusly, he had to keep himself out of danger's way.

Knock-knock, it's reality. He felt his feet slip, and, his weight accentuated with the tonne-weight Norwegian red cow, he plummets. The other cows watch, and had they the ability to speak, would have easily said nothing because he just killed a member of their own group.

He, however, _did_ have the ability to speak, and quite an ability it is. As he plummeted the height, he had enough time to say his last words, a list of profanity so overwhelming that even I am of no mind to reproduce it here, and even if I were, it would simply drag on. In his mind, however, as he was spewing profanity like your local politician spews lies, he was wondering if he left the tea on.

As his face hit the exposed stone below, his skull cracked, his face smushed, and blood leaked out everywhere as his flesh ripped in a seam down the middle of what was once his face. In his haze, he didn't realise he was dying. Actually, hold on, that's a lie. He realised it fully. He had one simple thought before he left the realm of the living.

 _Man, I really should have drank more tea._


	2. Day 1 - The Island Holds Many Secrets

_Written in fabulous E.B. Garamond_

 _Chunks Loading, please wait._

 _Great_ , he thought, _another loading screen. I thought I had got past the last one!_

He chuckled silently. "Well, at least the load time wasn't long."

Picking himself up, he quickly twisted his head, looking all around. He had been in this situation a couple times before—not knowing where he was, although it didn't come with a loading screen—but this is the first time he's had an environment this varied. Well, not varied per sé, but still more extreme than what he's used to. From where he was, he couldn't see any flat land, simply hills and mountains for miles. Desert. Grasslands. It didn't matter, really, because it was all far steeper than he would particularly like. Ledges, though, would at least help him make sure he didn't literally break a leg as he figuratively broke a leg up and down the hill.

Ideally, he wouldn't have to stay here too long, but the world knew him too well. He never could get a break, and being a stranger in a strange land was just the next level. Once he'd finished mapping out the area, he started his not-so-gradual descent. By descent, I of course mean free-fall into the sea. It's actually a miracle he landed in the sea in the first place. He was a metre away from death, and that's no good.

He wandered out of the sea, confused, moaning, and hungry. In the distance, he spotted some trees. They had apples growing on them, and so he flew to the green applebasket. What kind of apples hung there? Were they infested? "Who cares?!" he said, and picked two. He bit into the greenish yellow apple, with some juice being pressed out of the thick flesh, dribbling down his chin. He knew he could eat apples because he had done so before, probably. He wasn't sure what to think at this point, but he knew that anything is better than starving out in the Wilderness.

He cut one tree down, making sure to take a cutting for later. Lugging the wood from its old home, he made a little indentation in the ground in a small flat area in the middle of a 1 in 10 incline. Or something, he wasn't quite sure about it either. In fact, there were few things he was sure about. But what he was sure about was that he was male. He found that out the hard way earlier.

He set down the log, looking hard and long for a stone to cut it with. There were plenty, and as soon as he found the right stone, he dove it into the wood, splitting it into two and making some sticks as a byproduct. "Well—", he said, a plan forming. He cut some grass from the surrounding area, a task not difficult at all, and formed an axe. Crafted, even. Who knows, maybe he'll eventually mine alongside crafting. That would be much better because then he could be self sufficient, and self sufficiency rocks. It's especially useful on this island remote enough to not have a name that he could remember. It probably had one, but his mind drew a blank when he tried to think about it, so he named it Thornaby. "Wait, no, that's stupid" he said, smacking himself for thinking that. "I have a better alternative." And so, Donnegram Base was christened.

After a few hours, stones, and pickaxes later, he had a sizeable collection of coal, a stove, and a drafting bench. All he needs to survive the night.

Knock knock. It's the night. It's here and it's dark, and who knows what's out there. He dug out a little hole, put up a torch, and set the door into the roughly human sized impression. There better not be any monsters that can shoot bees, that would absolutely suck. It would be even worse if they had stripper armour, but rather than just look somewhat arousing to some (somehow), be actually effective in combat. Then again, bows don't exactly have the biggest spread, so he should be fine.

The night, as most nights were, was cold, and the torch was about to burn out soon. He had an empty book in his hand, a courtesy the universe provided alongside a set of unused torches. Coal as an instrument, he set to work recording the events prior.

And sleep, he really really needed sleep. In fact, he needed it so much that he did. It was some good sleep too, no dreams, it seemed like the night passed in a second.


	3. Night 1 - Spiders Suck!

_Written in fabulous EB Garamond_

That was a lie, I'm sorry. What actually happened was that he slept for about an hour, and then woke up hungry and confused. _Well, I'd better go see if I can kill some chickens,_ he said and walked out. The good thing is that there were chickens out in the open just above what he would hesitate to call a house, but in terms of what he could get, was a mansion. For now, until he actually has a mansion, but that's a long term goal. For now, he'll settle on the sandcastle. _That would actually be pretty cool if I made a castle._ Wait, that's not–whatever, this story's more sidetracked than... uh, things in sidings... "What is that?"

"No, seriously, what the fuck is that?" The six foot spider stood in front of him, eyes glowing red and legs extended. "Why are your eyes bioluminescent? That does jack shit for doing things in the day! Actually, _how are you not blind?!_ " The spider, had it the mind or body to, would have loved to explain, but it had neither. S0, to compensate for its small vocabulary, it bit him. Hard. Very, very hard. "OW, GOD, NOW I CAN SEE YOU AREN'T READY TO SHARE THAT INFORMATION JUST YET! This is bullshit, I'm going to find someone else to talk to."

He walked away. Bad move. The spider, irritated from the shout, jumped at the chance to get some free hits from his exposed back. Biting and biting, he tore away the long black outercoat and hat, and started on the shirt. Just as the buttons were torn away, his and the spider's eye met. Seeing his chance, he drove his fist straight in, hard enough to destroy it. With enough time to get up, he readied his axe—more of a hatchet really—and downed the spider with a strike. He felt much stronger than usual, since usually he couldn't use an axe in combat. Although, to be honest, that was a spider, and he usually could stomp one out. _EXCEPT WHEN THEY'RE AS WIDE AS I AM TALL!_

"Man, I hope that these spiders aren't smart. I'd hate to have smart spiders after me, the ones at my house at least didn't really mind if I killed one as long as there weren't others around."

"Actually, the spiders—" He couldn't finish. He was wrong, though. The spiders, while not able to talk, certainly could follow a train of events. And this one pointed towards him being the murderer.

They finished their friend's job.


	4. Day 2 - Construction Morons

_Written in fabulous EB Garamond_

You know, I think I know why nobody likes me. I keep leading you on the wrong path—intentionally, by the way, I'm not stupid!—and I know nobody appreciates that. I mean, other than the ones that do. They exist, I'm sure. Anyway, you're here for the story, so I'll pick up where I left off. He woke up a couple hours later, with an empty stomach and an earful of clucking. Grumbling, he got up. He never really wanted to know what he had in him, but considering how complainable the day was going, he must have been Jewish. Still, he needed to get _something_ to eat, otherwise he would starve, and that wouldn't be any good.

Cluck cluck cluck! The chicken's noises continued, drawing him in. Of course, he didn't need the noise for that, he just needed to be hungry. Tick, he was. A snap of the neck, a trip to the stove, and he wasn't in pain any more. That was the best he could say.

To the south, there was a small village. Well, I say to the south there was a small village, what I actually mean is that in the direction opposite the door, there's two houses. Two houses which, notably, were built in such a way that nobody could enter or leave. The door was situated at least 6 metres off the ground. The house itself had an above-ground basement two stories deep, and somehow I figured that it didn't have a floor under each level.

 _ **Hiss!**_

 _What was that?_

"Oh, shit!" he yelled, punched the blob of green away, and jumped to the floor. He survived this time, but there were more green things. Leaf or Moss Dildoes, they looked like, with frowns comparable to bananas. Gee, how _fun._ Especially since it was trembling in its boots. Well, it doesn't have boots, it's a figure of speech where I'm from. That friction is sure to cause a fire.

 _Kaboom!_

Well, not a fire, but close enough.

He was far enough away from the blast to be able to see the chain reaction and not be in the damn thing. It took out three or four moss dildoes and threw sand and oddly orange blood around. A small section of the house came crumbling down with it, the sandstone it was built with must be very old indeed. The immediate threat was gone, however, so that was all over for now. He noticed a few people with large noses. Huh. It extended beyond caricature and became simply a fact of life—there was an ethnic group with noses this large.

There were many possible questions, including ones about the moss monsters, the villagers, and the buildings. He was most concerned about the buildings.

Finding himself next to a villager, he prayed to whatever invisible man in the sky could answer his plight that they spoke at least some form of English.

"Hey, what's the deal with the houses?"

The villager saw his pointed finger, traced to the peculiar building, and inferred the meaning. The villager, with the knowledge of the language acquired from a less than reliable source, was hesitant to answer in English—after all, the last time he did so, he was kicked out for sexual harassment. He didn't trust the guy who taught him.

But he tried. "The man building that—Olberlink—had build them under ground fourty years ago."

"Why are there only two houses, then, if there are eight of you?"

"Nona us had knowledge of house building."

"Makes sense. Anyway, what is your name?"

"Gijs Päder."

"I will make a note of it."

And he set off. Päder hobbled back to the rest of the village, a left-handed bias showing in his limp. His scraggly bits of white hair blew through the breeze before finally cutting out in the shelter of the building.

The Newcomer, himself, had a walk to rival Doctor House, after all, he had just fallen four stories onto the ground. You don't just dust yourself off after that. The last thing he needed was a broken leg. His mind wasn't on that, though. The houses were still on his mind, even as he picked a fruit from a tree and bit into it. _Yeah, those blood stains aren't getting out_ , referring to the stains left by the plant-things. It was a lost cause until he could make new clothes.

"I hope it doesn't stain _me_ any, because I do plan to get out of here eventually. Especially now that I know there were natives." Donnegram Base was, hopefully, soon to be only known as failed. If not... "Well, I know who I'm going to blame." Newcomer's enemy and high school bully, Rudolph Dyer, seemed like a good start to the question in the back of his mind. Namely, _who the hell brought me here_? No, Dyer couldn't do this, he failed Geography. He doubted Dyer even knew what an island was.

Actually, he doubted _he_ even knew what an island was at this point, since it seemed to extend for quite a while. And it was getting dark, very very dark. Thankfully, he wasn't _too_ far away from his stuff, but it would be nightfall before he got back to D. Base.

 _ **Boom!**_

Orange blood. It was on the trees, the ground, and his tie.

 _The world sucks._


End file.
